Death in a Black Trenchcoat
by Effexxor
Summary: AU. Sawyer is dying of AIDs when his Grim Reaper shows up. But Sawyer never gives up that easy. SawyerSayid
1. Chapter 1

Sawyer tested positive for HIV in 1999. It wasn't really a surprise; when you spent about a month in a drug-induced haze, you didn't really care where that needle'd been. He tried to get healthier after. He tried to eat right, exercise, even tried that homeopathic shit. But despite everything, June 3, 2003 the doc told him that the blood results had come back, and sure enough, Sawyer had progressed to AIDs status.

He lived at home for another year-till a measly little common flu made him run to the hospital, coughing and choking all the way. That night of the flu had been the worst night of his life. Worse than when he went off the heroin cold turkey. Worse than the stomach flu he'd had when he was 12. The sheets were choking him when he woke up, curled around him like some sweat-drenched noose. Coughs racked his body, tearing through him like it was hell itself in his lungs. But he managed to catch a breath and another, stumbling up and grabbing his things.

The government wouldn't pay for an ambulance, and he didn't have the money for one. He wasn't in any sort of shape to drive. There were no willing, loving friends to drive him. So he took the city bus. Dim fluorescent bulbs cast a sallow light on his wincing face, bringing to life that fact that the wheels were whisking him away from his independence. Whisking him to where he was going to slowly die.

He stumbled through the doors into the painfully sanitary hospital, flagging the attention of a nurse, telling her about his AIDS status. The rest of the night he can't remember. There are flashes, a little blonde Aussie nurse holding his head as he puked and saying soothing, "That's right, just get it out, there you are," there's the one where he could have sworn the doctor turned into an elephant for a second, and he remembers how damned hot he was, but how they still kept piling blankets onto him.

The doctor had come in the next morning, all handsome and dark haired and rugged, a frown on his face, "Mr. Sawyer, why didn't you have a flu shot? You had clearance."

Shutting his eyes, he let out a sigh, as though asking why did he have to have such an idiot for a doctor. "I'm allergic to egg based vaccines. If you'd taken a look at my records you'd see I'd only had one tetanus shot in my life and that made me swell up like a balloon."

Grudging the doctor flipped through his medical history, nodding slowly, "My mistake. Well, we're going to keep you here for a while--" he held up a hand, trying to quiet his now seething patient, "because this year's flu has a bad habit of evolving into pneumonia. And with patients of… weakened immune systems-"

"Don't sugarcoat horse shit. I'm an AIDS patient."

After a cold glare, the doctor kept talking, "This flu has a habit of turning into pneumonia, so we're going to try to keep that from happening."

That was a month ago. Pneumonia had seeped into his lungs, slowly eating away at his health. The doctor was -- and he admitted this to no one -- alright and that little blonde nurse of his, Claire, was a sweet person. But little could break the sheer boredom of sitting in bed all day, waiting to die.

"Sawyer."

He lifted his head, awakening from his nap to see his social worker standing in the door, looking stressed and overworked, as usual. Sitting up, he graciously swept his hand around, motioning for his guest to sit in a chair, saying sarcastically, "A pleasure Michael, as always."

Michael rolled his eyes, sitting down wearily in the chair next to the bed. He was a thirtysomething black man, a hardass at times but mostly someone Sawyer got along with. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, asking tiredly but as blunt as usual, "Why aren't you letting the doctors give you painkillers?"

Sawyer snorted, shaking his head. Holding out his arm, he tapped the inside of his elbow, "Recovering heroin addict here. I ain't givin' in and puttin' that morphine crap in me."

"Oh. Oh yeah, that's right. Forgot about that, sorry. Well, what about one of the weaker painkillers, something not so addicting?"

"I wasn't just into heroin. Every painkiller out there, I've done illegally. Trust me, none of them'll make me hurt less without getting addicted again."

Michael nodded slowly, begrudgingly. "I'll tell the doctor then. He wanted me to force them on you, but I said you must've had a reason. And that's pretty valid."

Then the social worker began to fidget. Every once in a while he'd open his mouth, about to say something, but then he'd just shut it and shift around in his chair again. After watching the little display for a while, an eyebrow firmly arched, Sawyer asked with his full southern drawl, "What're ya' not tellin' me."

"You have about a month to live." Michael winced at having to say it, but he took a deep breath, continuing on. "You also have a house that's been fully paid for, and we found some of your parents old stocks. Altogether, you have a very good amount of money, but no will. We need to get that drawn up, and soon."

Sawyer snorted, shaking his head, "Yeah right, I have fancy stock out there that's gonna make me rich." After being pinned with a steely glare, he glared right back, asking dryly, "Fine. Tell me how the fuck I'm rich."

"When you were of age to collect your inheritance, you were high as a kite. Understandably, no one wanted to give the family's money to someone who'd just spend it on drugs. So they simply never told you about it." He let out a long breath, continuing, "So the question is, do you want to leave them your money, or give it to a charity?"

Scowling, Sawyer turned to Michael, "How much is it all worth?"

Clearing his throat, the social worker looked down at the ground, uncomfortable, "Half a million."

"Hot DAMN. I have half a fucking MILLION dollars squirreled away somewhere?"

"No, I'm lying to you because I take sadistic pleasure from it."

Sawyer grinned, "And that's why I haven't demanded another social worker. No political correctness for Mikey." Leaning back in his bed, he said lazily, resembling the proverbial cat who'd caught the cream, "Now let me think about this little issue for a while. Come back next week and I'll see what I can do."

Michael seethed with anger, saying icily, "I don't get paid enough for this shit."

To which Sawyer just shrugged, saying simply, "Not my fault." He leaned his head back onto his pillows, shutting his eyes. Smugly he listened to Michael grab his things and storm out of the room, enjoying his little pleasures in life, such as infuriating people just to see what they'd do.

All was quiet as he nearly slipped into a catnap till he heard a clipped, very grammatically correct voice say, with a touch of icyness, "That was not the nicest thing to do to a man simply trying to improve you life."

Sawyer snapped his eyes open as he startled a bit. Who the hell spoke with a British accent like that here, and who was anyone to say how he should act around Michael? So he sat up indignantly, very ready to rip into this guy till he saw him, his anger washing away to be replaced with pure shock.

He had wings. Honest to god, feathery black wings. Wings that he was moving. The man certainly didn't fit the idea of an angel though. What angel looked like some god damned Middle East terrorist? And angels were supposed to were big white dress thingies, not big black trench coats.

"What the fuck!"

The winged man tutted, shaking his head with amusement in his eyes, "Shame, such language. Now come on, we need to get you killed. I do have other people on my schedule, you know."

Angrily, Sawyer put his thumb over the red button that would call the nurse's in, "Get the fuck out of my room, or else security throw you out on yer ass. 'Ah ain't dyin' today."

In response, he only shrugged, "Bring them in. No one can see me except for you. And as for dying…" He stepped forward, saying with an honest voice, "Your lungs are burning. Don't try to deny it. Headaches are coming far more frequently. Your vision's dimming, you can't even walk to your bathroom without feel faint, and you're breaking out into cold sweats nightly. I'm offering you a chance to get out now while you're not completely miserable. You're going to die soon, and you're going to die in pain. Go now, and you won't have that hurt."

The blood in Sawyer's veins ran cold. He may have bitched constantly about his lungs, and Claire knew fully well about the night sweats (she was the one who had to change the sheets nightly) but no one, no one on earth, knew about the headaches, his vision or how faint he was getting on his little walks. Growling, he demanded, "How the fuck do you know that?"

The winged man shrugged, extending his wings (his glorious, beautiful wings that Sawyer couldn't help but envy) and saying, "I am Sayid. I was sent to escort you to the land of the dead. I know that you will die now of choking on phlegm that's building up in your lungs; a painless death comparative to how most with your affliction go. Now," extending a hand out to Sawyer, he said calmly, "let's be off."

Sayid was right. Sawyer was suddenly, painfully aware that he couldn't breathe. But obstinately he pressed the button, summoning Claire. He was NOT leaving just because some guy with wings was telling him he had to. And that was what kept him still forcing air through his lungs till the nurses flocked around him, shoving a tube down his throat.

But the whole time Sayid just stood there watching him with an impassive face, standing by as the nurses brushed past him. None of the nurses heard what he said, no one heard it but Sawyer. But oh, did he hear it.

"I will not take someone who does not wish to go. But I will not leave till I can lead you to death."


	2. Chapter 2

_The turkey vulture is a truly patient creature. Unlike it's cousin, the black vulture, the turkey vulture never attacks a live creature. Instead it will wait, for days if need be, for it's 'prey' to die. Only then will the vulture step forward to feast._

Sawyer looked warily at the man lounging around in one of the chairs in his room. The nature documentary Sayid was so attentively watching was describing him well. Except for the 'feast upon remains bit.' Hopefully.

But it'd been a week. A week where every damned day the winged asshole strode in and asked him if he was ready to die yet. And every day Sawyer told him no. But did that make him go away? Oh, of course not. That would have been easy.

The second and third days that Sayid made his visits, Sawyer tried to ignore him, only saying that no, he was not going to die. So Sayid just took a seat, grabbed the remote and watched 'Monster Garage'.

The fourth and fifth Saywer tried to get Claire to spend as much time with him as possible while Mr. Grim Reaper was around. But she had work to do, and the only thing he'd gotten from that failed expirament was his nurse picked up the habit of teasing him for watching 'Trading Spaces' while she was in there. And he couldn't exactly explain, 'Oh, I wasn't watching that, the man/angel/devil/terrorist was. He seems to like construction and gadget shows.'

Yeah, that would have gone off real well.

The sixth day he tried offending the winged ass. He called him every slur he could think of, even stooping down to calling him a 'sand nigger.' But all Sayid did was turn 'Extreme Makeover: Home Edition's volume up, and that meant Sawyer had to listen to that dumbass host talk about ugly shit that was just 'so adorable for such a deserving family!'

_'It's very easy to tell the difference between a turkey vulture and a black vulture from the ground. The turkey has white in a dome shape on the inside of it's wings, while the black has pure black wings, true to it's name. This difference is very important to people like farmers. While the turkey vulture will cause no harm to livestock, the black has been known to fly away with a live lamb to eat.' _

"Hey. Omar. Lemme see your wings."

Sayid tilted his head back to snort at him, but he opened a wing for Sawyer. Sure enough, there was the patch of white. Lazily, but still speaking with his proper British with a dash of something more exotic accent, "I think they gave me wings like this on purpose. I've been told distinctly that only someone willing to die may come with me." Pointing to the screen, he said with a soft chuckle, "Never realized that there was any connection."

Sawyer nodded slowly, scratching at the stubble on his face. Not wanting to give him anymore attention, he decided to settle down and take a nap.

When he woke up, he was alone again.

By the ninth day, Sawyer was going stir crazy, forbidden to leave his hospital bed by his own body. Nothing was good on TV. And Claire was sick.

So he decided to get to know Death better.

"Were you ever alive, or where you always just some creepy winged guy?"

Sayid lowered the volume of 'This Old House' marginally, turning his head towards the man in the bed. "I was alive. Born in 1967, actually. Then I died in Gulf War and took this job."

Arching an eyebrow, Sawyer viewed him with caution, voice guarded, "You were one of the Iraqis."

He nodded calmly, "I worked on telecommunications and occaisionally as an interrogator." The blonde's lip curled in disgust, causing Sayid to look sharply at him. Eyes narrowing, he spoke in an eerily cold voice, "You have no room to judge me. You are no innocent."

Leaning forward, Sawyer's eye's glittered in anger. With a hiss to his voice he said, "I didn't murder anybody. Whenever I fucked someone over, I never physically hurt them."

"You can't lie to me, and frankly, you shouldn't lie to yourself either."

* * *

_"Oh my god, Boone. Do you EVER stop bitching? I'm going out with my boyfriend. You know, something us normal kids with a life do?"_

_Sawyer let out an amused chuckle as he watched his newest little blonde of the week bitch at her overprotective brother. He liked her fire. Of course, her snippy attitude was zilch compared to those tanned, slim long legs, but, never the less, he liked that she was always painfully blunt. Shannon was a shallow blonde bimbo but, damnit, at least she had the balls to admit it._

_With an irritated scowl, she snapped the flip phone closed, promptly hanging up on her sibling. She let out a growl at the offending device, throwing it into the backseat of his convertible. Looking over at her, Sawyer gave her a slow grin, "If 'ah didn't know better, ah'd think he was an ex with how he's actin'."_

_She glared daggers at him for that little comment, pursing her lips and shaking her head. "I swear, you enjoy pissing me off." And with an afterthought, she wrinkled her nose, "Besides, one word to say about that." With a shudder, she said in a thoroughly disgusted voice. "Ew."_

_Sawyer chuckled, reaching out and running a hand up and down her thigh where it peaked out from her impossibly small miniskirt. "So, we're off to your dad's house?"_

_She grinned, her perfect little rows of white teeth flashing, and they sped further down the road._

_Shannon was giggly when she was high. Pot made some people mad and it made some dead out sleepy, but not her. Nope, it made her a little kid again, fascinated by every little thing that shone in the light._

_Sawyer was like that too when he was on regular pot. But in times like now, when he had the laced type, he was just horny and reckless. And to make matters worse his girlfriend seemed to forget she had a miniskirt on. So he watched her bend over to pick up a bracelet she'd dropped and felt the thin bit of resolve he had slip away._

_He almost did it. He almost raped her. She was just so tempting, and he was so fucking sure that she was just saying no to piss him off and, damn, but it was working. Anger just built and built, and when she cried out as he started taking her skirt off he slapped her. Backhanded and hard._

_Those perfect little teeth cut that perfect little pink mouth, and it was not his fault that Shanny cut her lip. It wasn't. But after three more slaps, she just stopped fighting, going limp. She just shook her head and gave up, saying with a whimper, "What… whatever you want."_

_Disgusted, he stood, buckling his pants and grabbing his shirt. Grabbing a phone, he threw it at her, "Call your incestuous older brother. Y'ain't in any shape to drive."_

_So she called her knight in shining Prada, and Sawyer even got a swing in at the stuck up ass before Shannon pleaded with Boone for them to just go home._

_He never saw Shannon again. He woke up the next morning in a hotel room, knowing what he'd done. The guilt… the infamous night, he didn't have any regrets though._

_The bitch deserved it if she gave up that easy, he'd thought._

_

* * *

_

Sawyer snapped back into reality, looking up at his reaper with a wide eyed stare. Sayid pursed his lips, glaring, "I never tried to rape a 16 year old, helpless girl."

Lip curling into a snarl, the southerner gripped the sides of his bed, knuckles turning white, "Y' made me see that again. Y've got control of mah' memories."

Seeing that calm nod, Sawyer just snapped. He flung himself out of the bed, not caring about the IV's…

But everything started to blur, all except those big black wings. Then it cleared again, sharpening to a grassy plain. "I wasn't going to fight a half crippled man," said that deep voice, "so I brought you to limbo. Not death, not life. But now you have your health. Come now. Strike at me."

Normally Sawyer would have called a moment for a good round of 'WHAT!' but he was pissed. So he caught that strong jaw in a rough uppercut.

They began to clobber each other. There was no rhyme or reason to either of their strategies. They were just a mass of snarling, punching animals. Sayid might have been stockier and far more muscled, but Sawyer was taller and was more agile. Each strength just got cancelled out.

But Sayid was a trained fighter. So, seizing his chance, he just managed to get his charge into a pin, bodies face to face. Using a hand to grab the blonde's hair, he gripped it steadily. His voice came out snarling his question, "Damnit, why does everyone have to fight you to get anywhere close to your respect. In every one of your wretched, wretched memories, you always just keep pushing at everyone, seeing if they're going to break. And you know what, Saywer? I think it is damned well time you learned something. **You can't break me."**

For once, Sawyer was completely, totally speechless. "W-what?"

"You cannot break me. I'm not going away. You've already tested me out, and obviously, I've passed." Locking eyes, those dark, dark eyes held perfect sincerity, "Let me in."

One would think Sawyer wasn't in the most comfortable situation. And he hadn't thought so a moment ago either. But now… it seemed warm, sensual, like a pair of lovers in post-coital bliss.

But he was a masochist. Pleasure wasn't something he deserved. So he lifted his chin, taking a deep breath and saying resolutely, "No."

He woke with Claire fussing over him. Gleeful to see him awake, she told him all about how his heart had been having problems, but how when everything seemed lost he just started functioning again.

It worried him though. Why couldn't he shake that regretful feeling out of his gut?


End file.
